But there’s nowhere to go except past him, and something tells me that’s not happening.
“You’re back early,” I say, trying for casual and missing by about a mile. “I thought you’d miss dinner.”
“Plans changed.” He starts walking toward me, his footsteps silent on the thick carpet. “Care to explain why you’re kneeling in front of doors you have no business opening?”
“I wasn’t—I mean, I didn’t open anything.” The words tumble out too fast, making me sound exactly as guilty as I am. “I was just curious about the keys. They’re beautiful. Very... decorative.”
Blue stops about six feet away, close enough that I can see the muscle jumping in his jaw but far enough that I can’t read his face clearly in the dim light.
“Curious,” he repeats, his tone suggesting curiosity might be a capital offense in his world.
“I’m sorry. I know you said the third floor was private, but I was alone in this enormous house and I got bored and started wandering and—” I’m babbling now, words spilling out like I can somehow explain away the fact that I’m obviously snooping through his most personal space. “I didn’t actually go into any rooms. I tried the handles but they’re all locked anyway, so really I was just looking at the hallway, which is honestly very impressive from an interior design perspective—”
“Saylor.”
The way he says my name makes me stop mid-sentence.
“We have dinner guests waiting downstairs,” he says. “We can talk about this later.”
Dinner guests. Right. Because nothing says “I’m definitely not hiding seven dead wives in my coffin manor,” like hosting a dinner party immediately after catching your current girlfriend snooping around locked doors.
“Dinner guests?” I repeat. “Right now?”
“They’re waiting downstairs.” His tone shows this isn’t up for negotiation.
“Blue, about what just happened—”
“Later.” He steps aside, gesturing toward the stairs with exaggerated politeness that feels more like a threat. “After you.”
As I walk past him toward the staircase, trying to project confidence I definitely don’t feel, I catch a glimpse of his glare in my peripheral vision.
He’s not angry.
He’s calculating.
And somehow, that’s infinitely worse.
Chapter Twenty-Four
Blue
Wren has truly outdone herself with tonight’s table setting. The crystal gleams, the silver is polished to mirror brightness, and our three dinner guests are tied so expertly to their chairs that they could pass for enthusiastic participants if you ignored the duct tape.
I guide Saylor into the dining room with my hand at the small of her back, feeling the tension radiating through her body as she takes in the scene. Leroy “The Prince” Crow sits to the immediate right of where Saylor normally sits, his refined features twisted with fury despite the gag. Jack “The Knife” Crow occupies the chair across from him, while Victor “The Veteran” Crow, the old-school gangster with the cane sword, completes our dinner party triumvirate.
“Gentlemen,” I say pleasantly, pulling out Saylor’s chair next to Leroy with the courtesy of a perfect host. “So pleased you could join us for dinner.”
“What the hell?” Saylor whispers as I guide her into the seat.
Leroy makes muffled sounds of outrage behind his gag. I wave dismissively.
“Please, no need to thank me for the invitation. It’s my absolute pleasure.”
Hans stands at attention near the sideboard, looking like a bouncer at the world’s most exclusive restaurant. His black suit is immaculate, his posture perfect, and he’s eyeing our guests as if he’s calculating exactly how many seconds it would take to snap their necks if things go sideways.
“Wren has prepared something special tonight,” I continue, settling into my chair. “Braised short ribs with seasonal vegetables. I do hope you’re hungry.”
I catch Saylor’s eye and nod almost imperceptibly toward the large carving knife positioned next to her place setting. It’s a beautiful piece—German steel with an ebony handle, sharp enough to split hairs. Or fingers. Or whatever else might need splitting.
